You and I have just read of a song contest which ended sadly; so I know we shall be glad to read about another which ended in quite different fashion. But how that was, I cannot tell you beforehand. You must follow the story for yourself.
At the time when the knights were glad to be known as minstrels—or "minnesingers," as they were called in Germany—the plain citizens and tradespeople were likewise interested in the art of song-writing. Sometimes they formed musical societies, or guilds, which laid down certain rules and offered prizes; and anyone was at liberty to try for these prizes, provided he obeyed all the rules.
The quaint old city of Nuremberg was one of the chief music centres of the day, being widely noted for its guilds and contests. One of the leading societies was composed entirely of tradespeople, such as the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker, and every fellow became so filled with the spirit of the times that he couldn't sharpen a knife or blow a bellows without keeping time with his feet and trying to whistle a brand new tune in the doing of it! In fact, Hans Sachs, the genial old cobbler, was perpetually hammering out new ditties with lusty blows upon his leather, so that many of his verses are known to this day.
The rules of this guild, I am telling you about, were somewhat odd. When a person composed a certain number of tunes he was called a singer. When he could compose the words to fit a given piece of music, he was called a poet. And when he could write both words and music he was given the title of Master Singer, spelled in capital letters, and mightily proud was he of this distinction! Of course, the music sung before this society had to conform to set principles which they believed right. But this was the great trouble with such societies; for while they fostered much song-writing, very little of it was original or different from the tweedle-dum, tweedle-dee which had gone before.
Nevertheless, the citizens of Nuremberg were quite vainglorious over their guild, and believed it turned out the finest singers in the land. Its yearly contests were widely attended, and great was the rivalry each year to secure the chief prize, which was the title of Master Singer.
But great as had been the contests of the past, the excitement was increased tenfold upon a day when the leading goldsmith of the city, Veit Pogner by name, announced a special prize for the coming contest. He said that he would give his fortune to the winner and also bestow upon him the hand of his daughter Eva. But one proviso was made to this generous offer; the suitor must be to some extent suitable to Eva herself. By this means Herr Pogner hoped not only to bring out new and great musicians at the contest, but also to wed his daughter only to a Master Singer—upon which last his heart had been set.
Eva herself had held quite different ideas on the subjects of music and marriage. A light-hearted and somewhat coquettish girl, her pretty head had been interested in many other things besides the monotonous singing of the butcher and baker, or the pompous airs of the dried-up little town clerk, Sixtus Beckmesser, who had long aspired in secret for her favour.
It must be confessed, indeed, that Eva was not always as sedate as she might be. On the day when our story opens, she had attended church very dutifully, but her eyes had wandered from her hymn-book more than once despite the energetic nudges of her maid Magdalen. The secret of Eva's inattention was revealed at the close of the service when, as they turned to leave the church, a handsome young knight stepped forward. His name was Walter von Stolzen, and although he lived in an adjoining province, this was not the first time he had sought speech with the pretty Eva.
To-day he had hastened to church to see her and ask her a momentous question. He had heard some rumours of her father's plan to wed her to a Master Singer and it had filled his heart with wild unrest.
"A word with you, I beseech," he said to Eva in a low tone as she and her maid drew near where he stood.